If It Ain't One Thing, It's Another
by Kaleidoscopic Panda Bear
Summary: T for language mostly. Worth/Lamont if you squint and tilt your head just right, but otherwise just drabbles about their friendship and bromance and the trouble they tend to get into. Also, this will probably never be done updating, so if you like it, make sure you follow it!
1. Chapter 1

**1 – Caretaker**

It's been awhile since Doc Worth has actually taken care of himself, but that's what he has Lamont for, he supposes.

It's nearing that time where it could be too late or too early, depending on how you looked at it or how fast you turned off the lights while opening the blinds, but Worth doesn't really want to think about that kind of deep bullshit right now. He's more concerned about the fact that he can't remember how much he's had to drink tonight and also the fact that he can't remember the last time he couldn't remember how much he had to drink.

It was kind of like inception; A dream seems real only until you realize something's strange about it, you know? And that's how it was, when something clatters to the floor off of the top of one of those rickety and not-quite-a-filing-cabinets in the corner of the shady hack's office.

Worth could've sworn on his mother's grave (speaking of the witch, he didn't even know if she was still alive anymore) that he had been leaning back in his ancient rolling chair, feet propped up on the desk, but now that he was staring at a thick and dusty encyclopedia laying spine-up on the floor, inches from his face, his right palm slick and bloody from where the rusted edge of the filing cabinet had nicked him, and he was doubled over with his left leg sticking straight out behind him for some sort of balance, he wasn't quite sure what was going on anymore.

His world was spinning somewhere near forty-five miles per hour and the whole thing seemed to be on a permanent ninety degree angle. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Worth dredged up the fact that someone was laughing. He couldn't be too sure if it was him or not, though it seemed to be, since when he went to take a drag from his bent cigarette, the chuckles stopped and he realized the cancer stick was smoldering on the ground.

"Fuck me, 'Monty. I thin' I jus' teleported." Except, his words were all slurred and he couldn't even decipher his own Australian accent. There was only silence and that freaked Worth out a bit, so he launched himself off the edge of the cabinet and slammed his boney shoulder into the wall, turning so he could see the room. Lamont was just staring at him from his perch on the ratty couch, an amused smile on his face.

"'M serious, 'Monty," but for the life of him, he couldn't remember what he was supposed to be serious about. So instead, he lurched forward again and somehow found himself draped across the Franco-Italian's knees. "'Ey, Mutt. How m'ny dogs c'n'ya fit inna bottle?" Lamont glanced down at him, and before he could ask his friend if that was supposed to be a racist joke, the Aussie broke out into a fit of laughter that was just...so _un-Worth-y._

"Alright, Luce. I think that's about enough." And thank god that Lamont was more sober than he should've been, because the night easily could've turned fatally disastrous if it had not been for the larger man's rather solid grip on reality, and, as Worth registered (a few minutes late), the chain smoker's waist. Worth then decided that he didn't really like being tossed over Lamont's shoulder like the bag of bones he was.

But before he could retaliate in a number of violently physical ways (he may be boney, but that came in handy when he wanted to jab a particularly cruel knee or elbow into somebody's side), he was being lowered down and -in a surprisingly gentle fashion, with a meaty, tan palm cushioning his head from hitting the mattress too hard- tucked into his own bed like a small child.

The would-be doctor had to snort at this thought, because, even as a child, he hadn't been small or treated with such care. Somewhere along the lines, his mangy, fur lined lab coat had been discarded, along with his shoes and belt, and by the time Worth was beginning to give in to the blackness around his consciousness, an empty bucket was placed on the floor near his head and the light was being flicked off.

Worth heard the hinges of his bedroom door begin to creak as it swung shut, and that sent him into another panic. With a surge of energy he still didn't know the origins of, he sat up, calling out the only thing that ever really made sense to him. _"Lamont!"_

The creaking stopped, and the door was pushed open again. The man in question stood in the doorway, a half-formed question dying on his lips. Worth beat him to it. "Git in m'bed." That was more of the hack's attitude. Never would he admit to not wanting to be alone, and he wouldn't just outright ask his friend of god-knows-how-long to stick around, but demands, they seemed to work just fine.

Lamont hesitated in the threshold for a bit, and that's when Worth got pushy. Really, the Franco-Italian should've been used to the Aussie's mood swings when the man was really, _really _drunk, but he could never get a handle on how unpredictable Worth could be. That was really shown when, in something akin to anger or frustration that Lamont wasn't moving further into the room fast enough, Worth let out a noise somewhere between a growl and a sob. Definitely unpredictable.

Finally, Lamont sighed. "Christ, Luce. Fine. I'll stay, stop being such a chick." As the larger man fell onto his knees on the mattress beside Worth, he mentally grumbled to himself that he was only staying because Worth would re-break his nose tomorrow if he didn't. And as he settled onto his side and curled an arm around his friend's thin waist, he ignored the happy sound that Worth made and chalked the cuddling up to not wanting the Australian to choke on his own vomit in the middle of the night.

It's been awhile since Worth has actually gotten this drunk and needed some supervision, but that's what Lamont stuck around for, he supposes.


	2. Chapter 2

**2 – Height Differences**

Worth was really an impressive 6"4 when it came down to it. Not that anyone would ever really know, seeing on how the hack insisted on hunching his shoulders and slouching, along with hiding in that ungodly hideous fur lined coat that just seemed to suit him so damn bad.

While Worth was busy shaving off a good five inches from his real height, the man looked to be somewhere around Lamont's area, an also solid 5"7. Not that the delivery man hated being able to look his old time friend directly in the eye instead of having to glance up; the fact that Worth seemed to degrade himself so much just bothered the mutt of a man.

Lamont was even going to go as far as saying something to the back alley hack, one day, when he brought over the man's order. He hadn't gotten even three words out before the door that he had just shut busted open behind them. Lamont was lucky that the boxes he had toted halfway across town were already on the desk, otherwise he would have dropped them at the jump-scare. There was expensive, breakable shit in those boxes, man. He really didn't want to have to track down duplicates.

Looking up at Worth with a questioning glance, figuring it was Hanna or something, Lamont did a double take at his friend's shocked and outraged expression. Before he could turn around to see who had barged in on them, Lamont felt his hair being fisted and tugged hard, propelling him backwards and into the bruising grip of one of the intruders.

"Toucey, I would've taken you to be a smarter man than that," a mocking tone of pity rang out in the now-silent office. A metallic click or three sounded out and the cold barrel of a .45 was pressed to the Franco-Italian's temple. _Well, shit._ And he couldn't even see who was about to do him in. What a way to go.

"You shouldn't have skimmed on the money you owed the bossman, you fuckin' mutt," the gun was pressed a little harder into his temple, and Lamont could feel the ring of the barrel embedding itself in his skin. He racked his brain for what the _fuck_ this guy was talking about. He didn't skim on any money. Actually, he made sure he left tips, even though it was technically supposed to be the other way around. "I don't know what-"

And then there was Luce.

There was no proper way to describe it; grace and fluidity had nothing on the way the man vaulted over his desk, took three, even steps towards his frightened company and the two 'gangsters', and then Lamont's world was thrown into a whirlwind of colours as he was ripped savagely out of the intruder's hands, only to be thrown behind Worth and onto the floor. He was up in an instant, though, ready to back his friend up in the event of a fight.

Surprisingly, he didn't have to. At 5"7, Lamont considered himself to be of average height. Yet, he couldn't even see the top of Worth's head as the man planted his feet firmly on the ground, squared his shoulders, and stood to his full height of that 6"4. He did see, however, the uncertainty pass over the two unknown men's faces as Worth towered over them. They didn't have time to be uncertain about anything, though; not with a pissed off Australian standing over them.

The one that had the gun trained it onto Worth, and Lamont barely contained his nervous laughter. That was a really inappropriate habit, he mused. A small, barely audible, _"Feh," _came out of Worth as he took the lit cigarette out of his mouth, seemingly studying it as he pinched the filter between his filthy nails. The goon that had held Lamont still finally growled, inpatient. "Look, ya nutcase, we want your fucking delivery boy there. Not you, no trouble, just give him up and we'll get out."

Wrong choice of words. Lamont was left wondering if Worth was ambidextrous as the cigarette he had been holding was now smashed a mile deep into the gun holder's eye, and scalpel that had materialized itself out of one of the fur lined coat's pockets was sunk equally as deep into the speaker's neck. Worth hardly seemed to flinch as the blood splattered against his front, hot droplets flinging every which way as the cold steel was dug even deeper.

The henchmen howled in pain, the gun holder's hands flinging up to scratch at his burning eye as the other's hands flew to his neck, trying to pry the scalpel out. Worth took the opportunity to snatch the .45 out of the man's hand and shove them both back towards the door. "Tha' should be answer 'nough fer yer boss. Now git, 'fore I feed yer bodies t' the alley cats."

That seemed convincing enough for the two intruders, as they both booked it out of Worth's office, not bothering to look back. The shady hack calmly shut the door behind them, locking the deadbolt and chain and all before turning around to glare at Lamont. He still hadn't slouched down into his usual bad posture.

Lamont saw it fit to release a tense chuckle. Worth's scowl only deepened. His blood splattered face and casual sky-scraper build only served to make the other even more nervous. The moment was broken, however, by Lamont's knees suddenly deciding to give out on him, and even though he tried to catch himself on the desk, he still managed to crash to the ground.

The back of his head bounced off of his would-be support, and Worth was there in an instant, kneeling in front of him and cursing over his stuttered string of, "Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow." The blond man batted his hands away and forced Lamont into leaning forward, his long, spindly fingers roving over the new-forming bump on the back of his head.

"Fuckin' idiot, gettin' inta trouble 'n shit," The Aussie grumbled, leaning away from Lamont and punching him lightly in the shoulder. Lamont was left to wonder where the .45 went and where the new cigarette had come from, and when Worth had started to hunch over again. He simply shot the dirty man a pearly, shit-eating grin, earning himself another punch as he laughed quietly.

Worth asked for no explanation, and that was fantastic, since Lamont didn't have one for him. Lamont was still curious, though. "Thanks, Luce," he mumbled, once he got himself under control. The hack waved his gratitude away. "But, man, that was some scary shit, when you stood straight up like that. Why do you slouch and hunch over all the time? You're much more..._influential _when you're at your full height."

Another nervous chuckle followed the declaration when Worth simply gave him a look and took a drag of his cigarette. "The fuck ya talkin' 'bout, 'Mont?"

Lamont deadpanned. "_You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me."_


	3. Chapter 3

**3 – Food**

Lamont was not a doctor, and even though Worth wasn't technically a doctor either, the man at least had some medical schooling under his belt. But, back to the point. Given that Lamont was not a doctor, it was surprising how many of Worth's (subconscious but still unhealthy) habits he managed to pick up on.

In reality, it wasn't that hard. Knowing a man for almost twenty-some odd years left no real room for privacy. Sooner or later, they were going to know everything about each other.

And that is how, when Lamont came over for a surprise visit on some of his spare time (criminal deliveries left no real room for weekends and holidays and the such), his attention was brought to Worth's eating habits. Or, rather, the lack of, since the man hardly ever ate.

It started with Lamont actually having to unlock the door himself for once. Usually, the hack's door was always open, no matter the time. That is, if the man had gotten up at some point to unlock it after waking up from one of his sporadic cat naps. That was another bad habit of Luce's; never sleeping fully. Lamont sighed and shuffled his keys around in his pocket, stepping into the dingy office and shutting the door behind himself.

He immediately froze, though, upon hearing the telltale sounds of retching coming from behind the door that lead to Worth's own quarters. "Hey, Worth..?" He called out, hopefully giving the other man time to collect himself. Lamont knew how much his friend hated being seen in any state that could be considered weak. The retching noises continued, though, so Lamont abandoned his position near the door and made his way back into Worth's personal area of the place.

It was almost frightening, at first, to see the hack in his current position. Lamont had quickly located the tiny excuse of a bathroom, and had nudged the door open with his foot. Worth was inside alright, and he was merrily hugging away at the porcelain god that was his toilet. His long legs were curled up in between the bathtub and the toilet, bare toes curling in -for once- unwelcome pain. His drawstring sweat pants were slipping down his hips with each jerking motion the dry-heaves forced the Aussie to make, and the sunken in area that was his stomach seemed so hollowed that Lamont was almost sick himself.

He had known the man was lithe, skinny, even, but it was accented horribly, almost to the point of seemingly starved, when seeing Worth without his usual layers of clothes on.

_Starved._

Lamont was at Worth's side before he could even announce his presence, but it didn't seem that the other would be able to mind in his current position. He draped his tanned arm across his friend's back, elbow pointed towards a narrow hip and hand clasping a bony shoulder, his other arm winding around Worth's torso to offer some sort of comfort and warmth to the cold, clammy skin.

The sick man tried to edge away from him, but the movement only served to make him retch again. It was all dry though; there was nothing left to throw up. If there had been anything to begin with, that is. "Hey, hey, calm down, Worth. It's just me. 'Monty. C'mon, let's get you off the floor, nothing's coming out, anyway." The mutters were meant to be patient and soothing, but Lamont's tone came out in a distressed, cracked sort of way.

He hated seeing his friend like this almost as much as Worth hated him seeing it.

When he went to pull Worth up off the floor, the taller man's legs didn't seem to want to cooperate. And no matter how awkward it was, Lamont ended up half carrying and half dragging Worth out of the bathroom and into the slightly bigger bedroom, a few feet away. Once Lamont got his friend onto the mattress, he watched helplessly as the hack curled into himself and shivered in pain.

He busied himself with searching the room for a clean shirt, but upon finding nothing but questionable stains and even more questionable, bloody rags and bandages, Lamont settled for shedding his own button up and slipping it onto Worth's frame. It clung and bunched up in all the wrong places, and it was almost endearing, if not for the fact that Worth didn't seem half as conscious as he did a few minutes ago.

"Worth," Lamont quietly called out, having buttoned the shirt up fully and rolled the sleeves down for maximum warmth, along with having wrapped Worth's too thin, holey blanket around the man's shoulders. An unintelligible grumble was all he got for his efforts, but it was an answer nonetheless.

He shook the chain smoker's shoulders some and tapped his cheek with two fingers to gain more of his attention, satisfied only when blue-gray eyes met his. "Worth, what's going on, man? You gotta talk to me. Pills, alcohol, what? I can't help unless I know what I'm up against." Worth shook his head at all of this, pitching forward and resting his forehead against Lamont's shoulder. Lamont reached up with one hand and rubbed at the back of Worth's neck, hoping to level the man down some.

"'M not on anythin', 'm completely sober," he finally managed to get out, in between controlling his breath and the dry-heaves. Lamont let out a barked laugh. "Ha. That's a new one. Then are you just sick or something?" He felt Worth shake his head against the material of his dark undershirt, the man seemingly giving up all aspects of speech.

Lamont frowned and let his hand glide down the other's back, the ridges of Worth's spine creating small bumps through the fabric of the blanket. "When's the last time you ate something?" He said, somehow knowing the answer and fearing it all the same. Worth stayed silent at this, so Lamont pulled him back and upright to look him in the eyes.

"Do you even remember the last time you seriously ate?" Silence.

"_Luce." _Then, finally, "A'right, I know, I fucked up. Should take better care o' m'self, an' all tha' shit, I know. But, s'not like I really got much ofva choice, now, do I." And even though it was a simple statement, there was both an unspoken question and a challenge in it.

Lamont struggled to suppress an angry, indignant noise. Finally, he sighed, reigned in his negative emotions, and muttered through clenched teeth, "Luce, you always fucking have me."


	4. Chapter 4

**4 – Loose Lips**

Lamont wasn't known for his secretiveness, or at least, if he did tend to keep some things to himself, he was _so _secretive about it that no one ever caught on. But, when it really came down to it, Italians weren't exactly known for keeping the important stuff to themselves. And, no matter how mixed up his bloodline was, Lamont was still Italian in more than one way.

It didn't really surprise Worth; the fact that the mutt couldn't keep his mouth shut to save his life. Over the years, he had let many things slip, such as Worth's first name to Hanna and Co., and the fact that he had known from the start that Worth pretty much got off on any and all pain.

(That conversation had went a little something like this: _"Yeah, Luce, I knew you were a fucking masochist before you popped a boner when I gave you a bloody nose last week." "Oh, did'ya? And how does tha' make ya feel, bein' the reason fer some ah my more...wild'r orgasms?" "Actually...It's kind of fitting, in a way. Just don't try anything funny next time we end up spending the night together." "Heh, funny's not really in my vocab. If I try somethin', 'm usually serious 'bout it." "Fuck off, asshole. You know what I meant."_)

Lamont had been very vocal about the first time he saw Worth's cuts, until he realized that it was just another form of that weird, offbeat pain/pleasure type thing. Then he had simply insisted on Worth keeping it under wraps, quite literally. By the time Lamont finally got laid for the first time, the young med student hadn't been able to stop hearing about it for months.

So, no, Lamont was in no way, shape, or form, able to keep things to himself. Or, at least, Worth had thought so. The man was now just stepping into the hack's office, the delivery Worth had ordered in his arms. "Oi, 'bout time ya got 'ere, ya sorry SOB. I was wonderin' when ya'd show yer mug 'round 'ere." Only when Lamont didn't rise to the bait did Worth bother looking up from the obscene, tattered magazine he was reading.

Lamont had stopped half way between the door and the desk, the large box balanced slightly on one knee as he tried to catch his breath, a rather pained expression on his face. "Yo, 'Monty. Y'alright?" And damn it all to Hell if Worth was actually showing some concern; even for Lamont's rather stocky build, the man was in decent enough shape to carry a fucking package that short of a distance without needing to stop and rest.

Lamont shook his head, even as he was mumbling a short, "Yeah, yeah, I'm good," and it could have been Worth's imagination or it could have been the florescent lighting that did it, but when Lamont managed to take another step, the slightly pained expression flared up into pure agony.

"Shit, Lamont!" Worth screeched as he lurched forward, past the desk, just barely catching the box that tumbled out of Lamont's grasp as the darker man staggered to the right, then collapsed onto his knees. Worth plopped the package down behind himself and kicked it out of the way with his foot, more concerned as to why his friend was pressing a hand hard into his abdomen, and why his breaths were coming in shorter, panicky and harsh gasps.

"I'm- Fuck, I'm okay," Lamont stumbled over the words, even as a bit of pink-tinted saliva was spat out onto the tiles. "I'm alright," he seemed to be trying to convince himself more than anyone else, now. Worth managed to pull him up, helping and more than half carrying the other over to the desk so the man could at least sit down on its surface.

Even without the effort of standing, Lamont still seemed to be in an endless amount of pain. And that hand, it was still pressed, white knuckled, against the spot on his stomach.

Worth's eyes flickered evilly back up to Lamont's. "What'r'ya hidin' there, 'Monty?" His evil smirk only intensified when, paling quickly, the Franco-Italian had shook his head and tried to sidle his way off the desk and past Worth. "Ah, ah, ah. No ya' don'." And then, a rare, angry look had slid itself onto Lamont's face. His lips pressed into a hard line, and he furrowed his brow as he glared at Worth.

Worth was enjoying it, however, and even went as far as to begin shoving Lamont over backwards on the desk so the man was forced into a laying position. "Worth, don't," he tried, but the effort of pulling himself back up was too much, and he ended up nearly blacking out from the pain as Worth cackled manically above him and began to pull his shirt out from where it was safely tucked into his pants.

So, instead of struggling or complaining or even remotely trying to stop the wayward hack, Lamont simply threw his arm over his eyes to block out the light and the oncoming headache and tried to ignore the way that the cackles cut off into a rough growl of irate, purely pissed off sound, and the cold, probing fingers that had tugged his shirt up were now tugging away the bloody bandage that hid his two day old stab wound from sight.

A hiss and another growl came from above him, and finally, Lamont spoke up. "Careful there, Doc. You're letting your true self out." He had meant it to be a mocking, teasing sentence, but his voice came out broken and pained.

"Who th' fuck stabbed ya', 'Mont." It wasn't a question. "Don't know his name." It wasn't a statement.

Worth was worried. The skin around the wound was red, puffy and raw, and the stitches that someone else had tried to apply were sloppy at best. It wasn't like Lamont to hide any wounds from him. Normally, the greasy Italian would come directly to him with this sort of thing. Unless..."Yer scrappin' again. Either tha' or ya' were tryin' ta' stick up fer some'un." An unintelligible mutter came out from the man under his scrutiny.

Turning back to the wound, Worth grimaced. Every good medical instinct in his body was screaming _'This is bad'_. "Don' move. I'll be right back," Worth let his hand glance off of Lamont's thigh, walking away to the back room so he could get his bag. He was going to fix it up, whether the other man wanted him to or not.

When the back alley doctor walked back into the main room, he wasn't surprised to see that Lamont hadn't listened to him. In fact, not only had the man not listened to him, but the Italian was actually trying to weasel his way out of the door. Except, the pain must've been pretty bad at that point, because Lamont had only made it so far. Not even really off the desk yet.

"Look, 'Monty, jus' lemme stitch ya' up right an' send ya' home with some good shit fer th' pain, yeh?" At that, Lamont eventually nodded his head. No more questions were asked as Worth pulled the old stitches and replaced them with his neat, tight handiwork, and by the time the chain smoker had patched his friend up completely and fixed his shirt for him, the man was snoring lightly on the desk top.

"Fuckin' drama queen," but Worth still managed to move Lamont to his own mattress, back in the section of his 'clinic', where it was his personal space. The Italian never could keep secrets from him.


End file.
